Dark Halls - A Horror Novel Read online

  Highland Elementary has a dark and disturbing past—so disturbing that locals ultimately burned the school to the ground.

  Years later, Pinewood Elementary is the future, and for new teacher Ryan Herb, a chance at a fresh start. But the townspeople don’t believe that rebuilding the school and changing its name is enough. They believe that whatever evil inhabited the halls of Highland still dwells in Pinewood.

  Ryan is a realist and isn’t the type to be affected by local lore. But when Ryan begins to experience horrifying visions of past tragedies, he starts to question his own beliefs. Something in the school is reaching out to Ryan for help, a potentially lethal request as something else—or someone else?—in the school is keen on keeping the evil therein very much alive.

  Can a skeptical Ryan unearth the origins of the evil’s true source and put an end to it? Or will he, like many before him, become a permanent resident of the school himself?

  Rife with supernatural terror and intrigue, Dark Halls blurs the lines between horror and mystery—a whodunit that, when solved, proposes the even greater question of: how do you stop it?

  Dark Halls

  Jeff Menapace

  2019

  “The flesh is weak, Johnny. Only the soul is immortal.”

  – Alan Parker, Angel Heart

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  1

  Emmett, Pennsylvania

  April 1801

  The woman hid in the barn. She’d managed to lift and slide the iron beam onto the brackets of both barn doors, sealing herself in, but the villagers would not be deterred, their incessant, murderous shouts carrying a force equal to—perhaps greater than—their efforts to smash through.

  The barn doors bowed inward with each charge, the iron beam holding, refusing to bend. The woman looked on with little comfort in this fact, for the iron beam’s refusal to bend grew irrelevant—it was the brackets holding the beam on those barn doors that appeared ready to give. Each explosive charge from outside would yield a crack on the surrounding wood that held the brackets, each explosive charge pulling the brackets further and further free, the barn doors bowing that much more inward, revealing a slice of the growing mob outside, their faces rabid with blood lust.

  A final charge and the brackets came free, the iron bar hitting the dirt floor with a dull clang, the barn doors bursting open, both from impact and the storming mob rushing in after.

  The woman screamed. She screamed as they pounced, and she screamed as they butchered her. Pitchforks plunged. Machetes hacked. Knives slashed. They tore off her arms. They tore off her legs. They tore off her head.

  A hatchet split open her limbless, headless torso. They removed her heart…

  2

  Emmett, Pennsylvania

  August 2007

  Oven, Ryan thought during the walk from his car towards the human resources building in his new black suit. Although it was still morning, the August sun was already out in force and doing a commendable job of baking him in the dark material. Once he got back in the car, the straitjacket and noose (tie) were coming right off and getting tossed in the back seat, air conditioner blasting the whole way home. If he got the job? You can bet your ass some old-school Metallica would be blasting too.

  Portfolio under one arm, Ryan pulled at the heavy glass door of the HR building with the other and entered. A blast of cool air immediately hit his face, and he all but purred.

  The elderly receptionist noticed his gratitude. “Could fry an egg out there, huh?”

  Ryan returned a polite smile. “Sure could.” He tugged at his tie to let the blissfully cool air find its way down his torso. Thin circles of sweat had already gathered in the center of his chest and beneath his arms, but the conditioned air soon prickled his damp skin—gave him “goose bumps” as his mother would say.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “I’m Ryan Herb,” he said, readjusting his tie. “I have a ten o’clock interview.”

  The receptionist pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose and scanned the appointment book. Her perfume was wincingly awful and generously applied at that. Ryan took a step back and pretended to tie his shoe to get away from it.

  “Okay, Ryan,” she said, “if you just take a seat over there, Mr. Hansen will be with you in a moment.”

  Ryan exhaled, popped up, and thanked her. He made his way over to three large sofas lining each of the walls facing him. Two coffee tables holding an assortment of magazines sat in the middle. He scanned them quickly, looking for any that may be education related. He spotted a couple. Would he reek of it if he picked one of them up—among several issues of Sports Illustrated no less—and pretended to be reading it with great interest when the head of HR came out? Fortunately, the decision became irrelevant seconds later—Mr. Hansen, head of HR, appeared with his hand extended, and Ryan couldn’t have been more grateful; he was a blink away from grabbing one of those Sports Illustrateds.

  “Hi, Ryan. Jerry Hansen.”

  Ryan took hold of Hansen’s right hand and stood. He shook it firmly during his ascent and then more so once he was upright. Ryan was a good five inches taller than Hansen at an even six feet, and his lean physique was the polar opposite of Hansen’s. Still, despite the man’s exceptional rotundness, Hansen clearly took great care in the remainder of the package. His dark suit sported a pink silk tie and pocket square. Thick gray hair freshly trimmed and parted neatly to one side. Chubby red face shaved smoother than a child’s. He carried a strong smell (lots of smells today) of bathroom soap. Ryan wondered whether he had just shaken the hand of a guy who’d recently wiped his ass. He hoped Hansen was a lefty.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hansen,” Ryan said.

  Hansen held up a hand and frowned playfully. “Please, call me Jerry…”

  Mr. Hansen was my father’s name.

  “…Mr. Hansen was my father’s name.”

  Ryan smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jerry.”

  3

  Ryan followed
Hansen down the corridors of the HR building. Their destination was a room that had missed the memo on décor. There was one window, one large oval table with chairs, and what seemed like nothing but the color brown.

  “Fancy, huh?” Hansen said.

  Ryan feigned a laugh.

  Hansen took a deep breath and continued. “Yeah, well, this building is kind of an impromptu human resources department for the time being. Anonymity is the name of the game right now until we can get the school year started; I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why. This place actually used to be an advertising firm.”

  “Is that right?” Ryan asked, hoping his feigned interest didn’t sound as bad in Hansen’s ears as it did his.

  “Yup. Advertised breakfast cereals, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Ryan smiled; easier to feign interest without words.

  Hansen did not return the smile. He instead asked: “You are aware of the details surrounding our…” He paused, then settled on: “Situation?”

  Ryan kept his reply intentionally short. “Yes, I am.”

  Hansen nodded once and took a seat at the head of the table. The table’s length was long enough for Ryan to have his pick of chairs, but he chose the one to Hansen’s immediate right. He placed his portfolio on the tabletop and folded his hands over it.

  “Still, I’m sure there are some things we can’t avoid discussing, yes?” Hansen said.

  “Of course,” Ryan said. Though he wasn’t entirely sure, Ryan had the sick feeling Hansen was alluding to the school’s tragic past, and in a mute effort to steer things in a brighter direction, Ryan began to open his portfolio…and Hansen immediately reached out with his thick little hand and closed it again.

  “I don’t need to see that, Ryan,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve got the job.”

  The words registered with Ryan, but any joy he should have felt was marred by confusion. He felt like a man who’d won something by default.

  Hansen seemed to have little trouble in reading Ryan’s puzzlement; it almost looked as though he’d counted on it.

  “I feel we need to discuss other matters first,” Hansen said. “Matters about the school’s history.”

  Oh hell, he does want to talk about it.

  “I know all about what happened here,” Ryan said.

  “Do you?” Hansen asked, leaning back in his chair, folding his fingers across his ample belly.

  “Yeah, well, I think I do…I mean, who doesn’t, right?”

  “And yet you still want to work here,” Hansen said. Said—not asked.

  Ryan frowned inside. These were questions he had not prepared for. He was prepared to talk about classroom management, his philosophy on education, No Child Left Behind, and all the other routine topics they ask about on such interviews. The school’s tragic past was not the elephant in the room he’d hoped it would be.

  “Yes,” Ryan said. “Absolutely.”

  Hansen leaned forward and placed both elbows on the desk. He looked hard at Ryan, but with a smile.

  “Do you mind if we keep the next few minutes somewhat…blunt?” he asked.

  Ryan shrugged. “Fine by me. I’m good with blunt.”

  Hansen pushed off the desk and rocked back in his seat. He sat in that position for a moment, rocking gently, metal squeaking, fingers steepled together beneath his double chin.

  Was this act of sincere rumination for effect, Ryan wondered, or was Hansen really at a temporary loss for words? Ryan’s gut reluctantly settled on effect; Hansen appeared the storyteller type.

  “You want this job because you can’t get anything else, am I right?” Hansen asked.

  Ryan searched for an answer. None was forthcoming.

  Hansen seemed to sense this and swiveled his chair to the right, taking his eyes off Ryan and placing them on the bare wall as he spoke. “Remember, we’re being blunt here, Ryan, so I hope you’re not taking offense to this.”

  “No offense taken,” Ryan said. “My skin is thick.”

  “Good. Because I’m sure you’re a damn fine teacher. Problem is, you just graduated. Yes, it helps that you’re a little older than the average graduate, but the truth is that no cushy district is willing to give you a contract unless you sub for two zillion years, give or take. And even then, who knows? Heck, most people who do try to go down that road fail to gain enough Act 48 and continuing-ed credits to gain their level two certification, and by then they have no choice but to remain a sub; their level one certification is no good anymore. Heck, at that point you’d be better off working a steady gig at McDonald’s, where you’d get better wages and benefits than you would as a sub—by a long shot.”

  Call me choir, brother, Ryan thought, cuz you’re preaching to me.

  Hansen took a breath and continued talking to the wall.

  “Of course you could find a stable gig in the city to gain those credits, but then finding shirts and sweaters to fit over a bulletproof vest can prove somewhat cumbersome, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ryan reluctantly grunted his agreement. Working in certain parts of Philadelphia’s inner city was indeed like working in a war zone, where personal safety unfortunately took precedence over a student’s education. And he should know; much of his field experience had taken place there. Loved the kids—loved the kids—but the structure of their environment and influence…it was as though nature was nurture’s bitch.

  Hansen continued: “So, you find us. The secret behind our desperate need for teachers is hardly a secret anymore, and you figure, why not? It’s in a lovely suburb. The pay and benefits are nice. The school’s just been rebuilt, brand spanking new. Sounds like a great gig, yeah?”

  “Sounds like if this ‘head of HR’ thing doesn’t work out for you, then you have a decent future as a fortune teller, Jerry,” Ryan said.

  Hansen accommodated Ryan’s wit with a chuckle, spun back in his chair, and faced Ryan. “Well, I’m afraid my comments are simply based on the majority of hopefuls like yourself who have walked in and out of these doors this past week.”

  Ryan frowned. “So, you’re not as desperate for teachers as you’ve made out?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Many come in from neighboring states. New Jersey, Delaware…folks who haven’t been bombarded with all the gossip and cuckoo talk that goes on around this area. Still, the majority tends to deflate before the interview is even done.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, once they find out about all the…things that have occurred here…” He shrugged. “I guess it just spooks them.”

  Ryan frowned again. “Surely these applicants knew about these ‘things’ before they applied, yes? They couldn’t have been going in blind?”

  “Yes and no,” Hansen said. “They knew some stuff—some stuff.”

  “We’re still being blunt, right, Jerry?”

  “Of course,” Hansen replied quickly. He seemed eager to hear what Ryan was about to say.

  “Why would you tell them more than they needed to know?” Ryan said. “You need teachers, and yet it seems like you’re scaring them away.”

  Hansen stuck out his lower lip in a judicial spout, pausing a few seconds before saying: “They’ve got a right to know everything that’s happened in that building before signing a contract.”

  “Sure, I understand that,” Ryan said, “but it sounds to me like you’re telling them about the deadliness of lung cancer right before offering them a cigarette.”

  Hansen seemed amused by the analogy. He asked: “What do you know about the school?”

  Ryan could feel a line of sweat running down his back. It was hotter in this room than the lobby. He straightened his posture and cleared his throat. And then Hansen’s earlier words suddenly came back to him, and his focus shifted.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Did I hear you right earlier? Did you say I had the job? It’s mine?”

  Hansen nodded.

  “Great,” Ryan said. Meeting over, I hope. “So where do we go from here? I ima
gine I have some papers to sign…?”

  Hansen ignored Ryan’s question and repeated his own. “What do you know about the school?”

  The room was hotter than the lobby; Ryan was sure of it. Maybe it was Hansen’s breath.

  “Mr. Hansen—”

  “Jerry.”

  “Jerry. I don’t understand why you’re harping on this. I’m okay with the school’s history; it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I don’t believe in curses, and I assure you that those wacky locals who picket the school and the old HR building will have no effect on me whatsoever. I just want to teach.”

  Hansen turned away from Ryan and spoke to the wall again. “Your response is admirable, Ryan. And I believe you’ll work out fine here. But the reason I am”—he held up both hands and made quotation gestures to the wall— “‘harping on this’ is because of liability issues. It’s my job to ensure that every employee I hire for employment in this district—in this school—is capable of fulfilling each and every job requirement that is expected of them. We can’t afford to have people freak out halfway through the year, if you know what I mean. You may think I am trying to spook you and the others, when, in actuality, I’m merely trying to test your resolve.”

  Ryan went to counter, but Hansen instantly carried on. “Before the school’s fire, we had several teachers—veterans—lose it for no apparent reason. These were folks I was quite familiar with; they carried the inner strength of an oak.”

  “Were these the suicides?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes. And each and every one of them took place within the walls of the school itself. A gym teacher hanged himself from a basketball hoop. An art teacher cut both wrists and crawled into one of her closets where she bled to death—a student, bless him, found her—and a science teacher leapt out of his second-floor window headfirst.”

  Not exactly within the walls of the school, that last one, Ryan thought, and then immediately chastised his dark sense of humor.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “I remember reading about it.”

  Hansen whirled back around in his chair. He was oddly excited. “The medical professionals in the community believe that curses are ludicrous, of course; they felt that the suicide victims had to have been unstable in one way or another, despite their years of diligent service.”